


Of the Magic You Cannot Control

by Blueburd



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: canon characters will start making appearances in later chapters, early chapters will be shorter to cut to the more interesting events, rating will also go to explicit due to future smut chapters too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-13 02:09:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15353889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blueburd/pseuds/Blueburd
Summary: Born in the beautiful land of Quel'thalas, this story follows the life of Alamor Elendeare: a blood elf rogue who found that not everyone of his kind needed magic to get by in the world.  The unfortunate and even tragic circumstances he was thrust into made him stronger, and he hopes to show his newfound strength to protect the land he loves.





	Of the Magic You Cannot Control

            “This is a bad idea, Ala.”

But he ignored his sister.

“We’re going to get caught!  And I refuse to take responsibility for your own foolish actions!” Aelvenya gripped her little brother’s arm as he poked his head around the tree.  Amani trolls paced back and forth just yards away, and if just one of them were to notice the two elves sneaking about their camp, surely they’d be captured and killed.  Yet Alamor gripped the bark of the tree and narrowed his eyes, “I’m getting back that dagger whether you want me to or not.” And suddenly, he jerked away from her grasp and darted for a bush next to another nearby tree.

“Alamor—no!” Aelvenya cried in a hushed whisper.

They had no idea he was there; if anything, the small elf was glad he could slip by so easily.  At only nine years old, he stood no taller than a fully grown goblin.  The dagger he sought after was in his sights as it sat alone in one of the troll’s cabins.  He saw not one of their green hides guarding the home, and carefully, he stepped closer.  Alamor was light on his feet as he made a bolt for the window, jumping in with a single swift movement.  By now he was almost certain that he gave his sister a heart attack.

A triumphant smile plastered his face as he snatched the crude, wooden dagger from the table, biting his lip to remind himself to keep quiet.  The blade was carved from stone while the handle appeared to be crafted from one of the neighboring pine trees; he once overheard the trolls talking about a dagger that could bring about good luck to whoever wielded it.  Alamor was certain this was it; the jade green stone in the center of the handle made it seem so special.  He had no doubts.

_And his parents would be so proud._

He turned on his heel, snickering to himself as he stared at the blade and admired it, but was abruptly snatched by the collar of his shirt, “Where do ya think you’re goin’?” The heavy accented voice of a troll snapped from behind him.  Alamor whipped around, growling in a yell as he thrust the dagger toward the Amani, but the troll quickly caught his arm and held him still, “You be stealin’ from us, ya little pest?”

Alamor thrashed and tried to get away, “Let me go, you puke-colored, sharp-toothed mongrel!”

The troll only laughed before yanking the dagger out of the elf’s hand.  Sharp beady eyes stared down at the child; Alamor’s blood drained from his face.  “You’re just a kid, I’ll go easy on ya.  Your death will be swift and painless.”

“ _No!!_ ” Cried a female’s voice, and the redheaded boy turned around.  His eyes widened as he quickly ducked, arcane missiles rushed in through the window to hit the troll directly in his chest.  His heart beat hard in his ears as adrenaline rushed into his body.  Aelvenya stood outside the window with her hands thrust in front of her, arms shaking slightly as the missiles poured from her hands, “Alamor,” she panted.  The child seized the opportunity to grab the dagger and make a run out the front door.  But, due to his poor thinking on the spot, he managed to attract the attention of two other trolls and their pets.  The boy darted to his sister as vicious felines bared their sharp fangs, “Let’s go, now!” he pushed her and they began to run.  The Amani would only follow them so far before turning back, they were sure of it.

It seemed as though the legendary luck of the dagger _didn’t_ decide to play on their side today, as Alamor suddenly let out a choked gasp and fell onto the ground.  An arrow jutted from his right shoulder, tears began welling in his eyes at the pain.  Aelvenya turned back, running beside her brother and tried desperately to get him back on his feet, “Come on, come on,” she pleaded, panic settling in. 

“Get da knife from da little one.” One of the trolls sneered.  The other drew his bow, aiming it at the girl.  Aelvenya’s hands shook as she placed them on her sibling’s shoulders.  As she prepared to face her death, the troll with the bow suddenly recoiled and fell back.  The other whipped around, but soon found himself on the ground next to his comrade.

“Rangers, push forward!  No Amani are to cross these borders!”

Aelvenya looked up to face their rescuer.  “Ranger-general,” she sighed in relief.  The blonde elf offered a hand to her, “It’s unwise and foolish to venture out this far.” Sylvanas Windrunner lectured.  Tears threatened to spill from the girl’s eyes as she ignored her hand, turning her attention back to her brother, “H-he’s been shot, general,” she choked back a sob.  Sylvanas knelt, inspecting the boy’s face.  She pressed two of her gloved fingers against his neck.

“He is unconscious, but not dead.  The arrow doesn’t appear to be poisoned, too.  Consider yourselves very lucky.  We must get him back to your home immediately; do you know of any priests?”

“My father,” Aelvenya started, watching as the Farstrider captain gently took her brother from her arms, “has been a priest serving Silvermoon for years.  He can heal him.”

“Good.  He was not shot in a vital spot, but my theory is he passed out from the shock; he hasn’t lost enough blood to put him unconscious, and his skin isn’t showing sign of poisons.  He will be all right, but we must hurry, young one.”

            Alamor awoke to see his father removing a damp cloth from his forehead.  The boy groaned, wishing that he actually _would_ have died back at the Amani camp instead of having to face his parents for a harsh scolding.  Surprisingly enough though, Aro’len said nothing as he rinsed the rag in clean water.  He felt embarrassed, humiliated, that he actually thought he could sneak into the camp to steal the—

_The dagger._

Where was it?  They never recovered it, did they?  Did his sister still have it?  Perhaps his father and mother didn’t know about his newly acquired treasure?  And perhaps, Aelvenya was keeping it a secret from them?  But oh, if they found out and actually returned it to those damn trolls after all the trouble he went through to get it…

“Alamor,” the deep voice of his father cut through his thoughts.  The redhead hesitantly turned his head, the concerned yet disappointed look on Aro’len’s face made his stomach twist.  “You cannot be so reckless, my son.  Had it not been for the Farstriders, we could have lost you and your sister.”

“I’m sorry,” Alamor snapped, rolling over with a sharp groan.  His shoulder ached—the arrow had been removed, but he knew that he would be sore for days, possibly weeks, in that very spot.  “Your mother and I love you very much, Alamor, and we desperately want to keep you safe.  You _cannot_ provoke the trolls like that, no matter how terribly you want to.” The priest rose from his chair and took his staff that was resting beside the wooden nightstand.  “Rest some more, we will discuss this later.”

 

* * *

 

 

            Magic was the quel’dorei’s birthright; anyone and everyone knew at least one spell, and some even mastered the ways of the arcane at such a young age it would have been completely unheard of among any other race.  So for Alamor’s fifteenth birthday, he was gifted a staff of his own.  Aro’len wanted for him to become a priest like him more than anything, but if the magic of the Light wasn’t for him, then he would just as easily settle for him becoming a powerful mage like his mother.  He was excited to teach him and show him the ways to bend the power to their will, using it to bring forth life and replenish health that was lost.  Alamor sat outside with his new staff in his hands when his father approached him, “My boy,” he greeted with an enthusiastic smile, “It is my duty and honor to teach you the ways of the Light.  With this knowledge, you may proudly carry the family name into the next generation of our kin.”

“Yes, father,” the redhead replied, standing as he brushed some of his long bangs aside.  “Unfortunately, I cannot remain here and help you study, as I am required in Silvermoon in less than an hour, however please take these,” Aro’len handed him two books, both heavy with hard-backed covers.  Gold embellishments decorated the perfectly clean white covers; these were important books, no doubt.  “I expect both to be read in less than two days.  They cover critical material that you will need to know to become a priest.  For now, I will leave you to your studies, Alamor.”

The younger elf gulped as he stared down at the two books.  That was a lot of material to cover…  He bit his lip, watching Aro’len walk away to find his hawkstrider. 

He wasted no time in opening up the book to its first page and stared at the first sentence.  The parchment felt rather rough against his fingers and the ink was faded.  How old was this book?  Older than him for sure, but was it possibly older than his father?  Wouldn’t it have been something if it came from the era of the first generation of the quel’dorei.  And oh, if that was the case, this was certainly quite the relic!  How did his father acquire such a thing?  Was it perhaps a family heirloom?  A gift passed down from generation to generation of priests in the family?

Alamor blinked.

He was supposed to be reading.  And there he went off daydreaming again.  Silently he sighed to himself, shaking his head a little to reread the first sentence. 

…  He reread the first word.

And again before going to the next.

Alamor blinked twice and averted his eyes from the page.  _This_ again.  A frustrated sigh left his lips – the words on the page seemingly jumbled themselves up the longer his eyes remained on the page.  Perhaps he could ask a family member to read it to him instead, but he knew better than to trouble one of them with the task given to him.  And not once had he brought up the fact that he had such trouble reading; it was out of pure pride that he kept silent.

So, being the stubborn and prideful young elf that he was, he rolled up his sleeves and snatched the book back up, squinting as he thumbed his lip in thought.

And he soon realized he wasn’t going to get _anywhere_ like this.

 

* * *

 

 

          “So you won’t become a priest, and you won’t become a mage under your mother’s guidance.” Aro’len spoke sternly as he sat across from his son, arms folded crossly.  Alamor glanced away, avoiding eye contact as he replied, “You act as if those are my only two options–”

“Given your bloodline and family history, it’d be foolish not to take up one of the two.” The blond interrupted.  Alamor bit the inside of his lip, his fist clenching in aggravation.  They didn’t listen, they _never_ listened– he was getting so fed up with his family, including his sisters.  “Father,” he muttered, “I’ve tried so many times to correct my mistakes and cast successful spells.  I…” he looked up, and the scowl on his father’s face made his stomach churn, “I can’t.  No matter _what_ I do, I can’t.”

“Then you need proper teaching.  Clearly the lessons written down in the books I gave you aren’t cutting it.” The older elf rose from his seat, walking past his son and toward the door, “I’ll speak with your mother about this.  Alamor,” he turned, “this is important.  You know we care about you and your future, but we also want what’s best for you; you must have motivation, you need to try harder, my boy.” Aro’len set his hand atop the handle, “You are eighteen now.  You must decide your future soon.” He saw himself out, shutting the door with a soft click.

A strained sigh escaped Alamor’s throat as he leaned down, burying his face in his palms.  What more could he possibly do?  Like a teacher could help him– they’d grow frustrated with him just as his parents did.  They’d toss him aside, saying they couldn’t work with him and that it was impossible to teach magic to a youngling who simply couldn’t grasp the concepts.  At only eighteen years old, one would think that by then he’d have something down.  But no– he couldn’t even manage a little spark.

Aelvenya was a spitting image of her mother, appearance-wise and with her skills as well.  They expected him to be just like her.  And Zaralyna, at merely eight years old, showed great promise already as a priest.  She would go with him into the woods, looking near and far for injured animals to try to heal.  The brat got all the praise, all the attention that he’d never get.  He just supposed then that once his father saw no potential for magic in him, he was brushed to the side as he tried to instead make his younger sister into what he wanted.  And _oh_ , how that made him angry.

“Ala?” A familiar voice called from behind him.  His ears twitched as he stood up straight, turning his head toward the door.

Speak of the devil.

“Hey, Zara,” the redhead smiled weakly, waving her over, “I thought you were with Aelvenya and mama?”

The small girl approached, brushing some of her blonde hair from her eyes, “They said I had to go home.  They wanna go to the city.”

Ah.  That’s why.  Alamor understood why taking her with them wouldn’t be a good idea– she was always more shy and introverted than the rest of their family.  Taking her into a bustling, busy city probably wasn’t in their best interest, as it could possibly frighten her at a young age.

“Well, that was mean of them.  They told you they would spend time with you today, didn’t they?”

She nodded, reaching up at the table and taking one of Aro’len’s feather quills into her small, delicate hand.  “They said they wouldn’t be very long, but Aelvenya always gets sidetracked.”

Alamor laughed, “She likes anything and everything that glitters.” he smirked.  Zaralyna giggled, pointing up at him with the feather, “Let’s go down to the beach!  And bring your rod, I wanna fish!” Her brother waved a hand, “All right, fine fine.  Go put some shorts on; we’re gonna be wading in the water.”


End file.
